


Poetry Is a Feeling

by SnowyWolff



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, F/M, aphrarepair2019, english major abuses english poetry, theyre bi harold, you can take book nerd lovino from my cold dead hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 09:39:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19129438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowyWolff/pseuds/SnowyWolff
Summary: She walks in beauty, like the nightOf cloudless climes and starry skies;And all that’s best of dark and brightMeet in her aspect and her eyes:Thus mellow’d to that tender lightWhich heaven to gaudy day denies.***Where poetry really does offer the words needed to speak one’s mind.





	Poetry Is a Feeling

**Author's Note:**

> For APH Rarepair Week 2019: Day 6 - Flowers
> 
> This started out for the prompt of flowers but then I decided to be extra and flex as a student of english literature, so it’s not really,,,, befitting anymore. Oh, well, there’s a violet in there somewhere.

Natalya watches him as he works, knelt in the dirt, humming as he squeezes a plastic pot, loosening the dirt and roots, and plants flower after flower in his small garden. Standing in the doorway, having let herself in with the key he’d given her a week ago, it’s the first time she has actually seen him garden even though he talks about it all the time, bashfully, as if he doesn’t quite know how to talk about the things he likes without resorting to the comfort of quoted poetry (and even then, she has heard _To the Lady Radegund, with Violets_ in both English and Latin more than once).

Sweat makes his tank top near-transparent, sticking to his body, and his shorts appear a little on the tight side, probably because he normally dresses in slacks and three-piece suits, so these might be the only pair he owns. She’s certainly not complaining, especially not as he leans forward, but it couldn’t be comfortable for him.

She knocks on the glass door, announcing her presence, raising her eyebrow as he pauses, turning to look up at her.

“I thought I’d finish my assignments here,” she says, feeling oddly elated as his eyes flick down her dress, to her bare legs, then up again, as if realizing they had strayed, ears flushing.

Lovino clears his throat. “Go ahead.” He scratches his jaw, leaving behind a patch of dirt in the scruffy shadow he’s forgotten to shave. “Would you like something to drink? Eat?” He thinks for a moment. “I might have some ice cream in the freezer still too.”

He makes to stand up, but she quickly shakes her head, placing her bag on the patio table. “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”

Lovino seems hesitant, but nods. “Well, if you need anything, just—” He gestures, and she can’t quite read whether he means for her to ask him whenever or just peruse his kitchen as she pleases. Knowing him, he won’t mind either.

“I will.” The chair scrapes across the tiles as she pulls it back, old and worn, wood warmed in the sun, and she pushes down her sunglasses as it glares just over the neighbouring houses.

She has to turn the brightness of her laptop all the way up, spreading her books and her scratchy notes all over the table. She has to write the concluding paragraphs of an essay, summarize her notes, and make a start on another assignment.

There is a different kind of peace that she can only find at Lovino’s home, something that can’t be found in the university’s library. Maybe it’s because there’s a quaintness to Lovino’s domesticity, to his friendliness, to Lovino.

Natalya’s never sure whether he’s flirting with her or not, unsure of why he would want to anyway. He’s six years older than her, with a literature degree, two cats, a small antique book store, and a nice suburban house (though he had inherited the last two from his late grandfather), while she is still fighting her way through graduate school, unsure of what she even wants of her future beside a paying job and a green card despite being twenty-five.

They had met at a book fair two years ago. It had been an outdoors event, with market stalls and books wherever you looked. Disinterestedly, she had walked along the stalls, occasionally stopping to read a summary, but never lingering. That was until she reached Lovino’s stall, set up neatly, with old dusty spines and equally old dusty lettering that was hard to read. She hadn’t cared for the books that much, but there had been that spark in Lovino’s eyes when he had caught hers, flashing an inviting charming smile with an honesty she was unused to seeing. He hadn’t sold her a book that day, but they had talked, in between customers and a spring storm. He had given her his business card, a hopeful gesture, and when she came into his store the next week, he smiled at her again.

“Poetry?” he asked, a knowing glint in his eyes, and she followed him to the designated stacks, though he didn’t leave her to her own devices, instead gliding a finger along the spines until he plucked a rather beaten book from the shelf.

Natalya peered at the cover, smiling despite herself. “Coleridge.” She hesitated before taking it from him. “How’d you guess?”

“A feeling.” He shrugged, watching as she thumbed carefully through the book. “It’s not hard to guess when you’ve grown up within the art of selling books.”

That drew a laugh from her, a little surprised snort, and she covered her mouth with her hand, shaking her head. She lowered her eyes quickly as she noticed him smiling again. It was a rather distracting smile.

Instead, she found what she had unconsciously sought for. Foolishly, she began to read, her voice sounding almost distant to her as she slipped back into the old, familiar words:

_“A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,_  
_A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief,_  
_Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,_  
_In word, or sigh, or tear—”_

She paused, glancing up at him, to gauge his reaction, his interest, but he was laughing, eyes turned to the ceiling as he huffed almost noiselessly. Natalya felt insulted all the same, puffing up to hiss something, anything, but then Lovino met her eyes and he continued for her:

_“O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood,_  
_To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo’d,_  
_All this long eve, so balmy and serene,_  
_Have I been gazing on the western sky,_  
_And it’s peculiar tint of yellow green:_  
_And still I gaze—and with how blank an eye!”_

His voice held the confidence of something often recited, warm and rustic in intonation. She had wondered then if it was something he practised every night, and she knows now that he just reads, over and over again, until he’s memorized it seamlessly, just because he likes the leniency poetry offers.

Lovino looked at her, eyes flicking down to the book, and she found herself finishing, the words returning to her from when she had learnt them a lifetime ago:

_“And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars,_  
_That give away their motion to the stars;_  
_Those stars, that glide behind them or between,_  
_Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen:_  
_Yon crescent Moon as fixed as if it grew_  
_In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue;_  
_I see them all so excellently fair,_  
_I see, not feel, how beautiful they are! 1 ” _

She had gazed at him throughout, unable to look away, afraid the words would vanish like whispers of smoke if she did. They held each other’s eyes for what felt like eternity, as if they were the only two people to know that poem, connected in its melancholy.

But the little bell by the front door tinkled, and Lovino blinked, the spell broken as he shuffled his feet, seemingly unable to leave but perhaps caught in a habit of costumer service.

Natalya turned to the bookcase, saving themselves from awkwardness as she pretended interest in a scribbled-in copy of Sylvia Plath’s _Ariel_. She refused to read his hesitation as reluctance, feeling silly in her attraction for him, but she couldn’t stop herself from peeking through the stacks as he directed a young man to the basement for books on philosophy. She wasn’t sure whether she felt relieved or not when he didn’t lead the man like he had her, but the disappointed tug in her stomach was hard to ignore when he went to the counter instead of back to her.

When she tossed the Coleridge, together with a collection of Anna Barbauld and Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s _Aurora Leigh_ , on the counter, startling Lovino from where he had been having a phone conversation, she felt annoyingly upset that perhaps it all was a spiel.

She snapped, “Guess it worked out, that feeling of yours.”

He blinked at her, ended his phone call, and said, “Only if you come back sometime.”

And she did, stupidly, every Saturday afternoon. At first it had been to satisfy her mind’s logic that her crush would pass over soon enough if she just saw what a boring person he really was. Unfortunately, Lovino turned out to be a very interesting and engaging person, so it just got worse.

She would come in and he would smile that smile of his, and he wouldn’t even lead her anywhere anymore, but would sit her down on an extra chair by the counter where they would chat, about anything and everything, as they had done during the book fair. She would start to bring and hoard her many cans of tea at his store to share with him and he would bring a myriad of snacks and baked goods made by his brother’s husband to indulge her, or so he claimed.

But she could never quite gauge his interest. They had talked about sexuality, sure, and to find a fellow bi in him was a nice reprieve from the heteronormativity forced down her throat just about everywhere else, but never once had he made it obvious he had a romantic interest in her, even if he did spew a lot of love poetry her way with a mischievous smile.

She looks at him now, unabashedly, dressed in his simple top and too-small shorts, bare-footed and covered in sweat and dirt. He’s an enigma to her, despite her knowing too much about his past, his interests, his thoughts and ideas.

Maybe he doesn’t have an interest in her, romantically. Maybe he thinks she doesn’t have one in him, having heard her speak viciously of the portrayal of femininity and love within literature more than enough. She’s certainly finishing up another essay on the topic as is.

Lovino says, “Recite something for me,” as if he can just tell she’s having an unnecessary break from her studies.

All her brain comes up with are the dregs of Barbauld, mind still stuck on her argument.

_“Then, then, abandon each ambitious thought,_  
_Conquest or rule thy heart shall feebly move,_  
_In Nature’s school, by her soft maxims taught,_  
_That separate rights are lost in mutual love. 2 ” _

He glances back at her, bemused, and she wants to ask why he had given her the keys to his damn house. But she doesn’t because she knows why. This is his abstruse way of asking permission of her, by giving her permission to everything he has to offer. Still, she wonders if she reads too much into his expressive eyes, into his solid voice and into his gentle feelings. Never is he straightforward, but then again, had he been, she doubts she would like him as much as she does.

Lovino plucks something from his garden after dusting his hands against his shorts, turning to her with a strange kind of knowledge.

“A violet by a mossy stone / Half hidden from the eye!” He wields the little purple flower, a violet indeed, kneels by her side as she removes her sunglasses, and gently brushes back her hair before tucking it behind her ear. “Fair as a star, when only one / Is shining in the sky.3”

“You’re an awful man,” she says, huffily, as his fingers linger against her jaw. “You never say anything outright.”

He snorts, leaning against her chair, still below her so she has to look down at him. “Outright, you say. Have I not recited enough love poetry yet? Should I do more?”

“I’d rather you spare me.”

He ignores her, of course, and she doesn’t mean it either, thrilled to know it’s all meant for her, every single sappy word that leaves his mouth.

_“She walks in beauty, like the night_  
_Of cloudless climes and starry skies;_  
_And all that’s best of dark and bright_  
_Meet in her aspect and her eyes:_  
_Thus mellow’d to that tender light_  
_Which heaven to gaudy day denies.”_

“How mushy.” Natalya purses her lips to keep from smiling, but his eyes are shining as he rests his hand on hers continuing still:

_“One shade the more, one ray the less,_  
_Had half impair’d the nameless grace_  
_Which waves in every raven tress,_  
_Or softly lightens o’er her face;_  
_Where thoughts serenely sweet express_  
_How pure, how dear their dwelling place.”_

She wants to mock the raven tresses, her own pale hair a contrast so stark she’s almost insulted by his choice of poetry, especially as Byron is one of the few Romantics to deviate from the pattern of the blazon, but when he pushes himself up, slowly, fingers caressing her cheek, she forgets about it as he finishes the poem.

_“And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,_  
_So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,_  
_The smiles that win, the tints that glow,_  
_But tell of days in goodness spent,_  
_A mind at peace with all below,_  
_A heart whose love is innocent! 4 ”_

They’re close, so close their noses almost touch, but he leaves the choice to her, in that awfully respectable manner of his, and she leans forward to kiss him, finally.

Lovino is a good kisser, gentle with the push and pull of his lips, and she likes him for his ease, for the calmness of it. There’s something distinctly unhurried in his actions, but she still feels his relief, spoken in the little sighs he breathes when she runs her hand along his biceps and tickles his neck. It’s natural, kissing him, like they’ve been doing it forever, yet it’s so fresh and new that it’s intoxicating, and she doesn’t want to part, wanting him closer still.

Her hand has curled around the back of his neck and she rubs the sweat-slicked skin, even as they draw apart. He’s blushing, which she hasn’t seen him do before, and she takes it in slowly, wondering if it’s really her who made him do so.

He clears his throat, but his voice still sounds hoarse as he teases, “I apologize for the loss of separate rights.”

She pinches his arm as he stands, and he laughs as he stretches, rubbing the sore spot. “Presumptuous, you.” She flicks her sunglasses back onto her nose and turns back to her laptop.

Lovino places his hand on her shoulder, and she touches it quickly with her own, as if to ground herself into believing that this is real and everything really had just happened. He leans forward and says, “I guess it really did work out fine, that feeling of mine.”

She picks up her copy of Coleridge and smacks him in the face with it, feeling her ears burn as he laughs, the sound carrying even as he goes inside to pour something to drink for them.

She’s typing her conclusion by the time he returns with iced tea and marble cake and she shoves her laptop aside to discuss his awful choice of Lord Byron as a means of confession, gesturing with her slice of cake and spreading crumbs all over her notes. He wipes them off with a fond smile, both her criticisms and the crumbs, and kisses her again as she falls silent to think of a more suitable poem.

She never does quite manage.

**Author's Note:**

> I realized when I rewrote that yes,,,, a blazon would have fit nat pretty well in terms of description, and we could’ve had some petrarchan fun, but uhhhh ✨✨romanticism✨✨ 
> 
> I still don’t know what I want for Natalya’s personality. I haven’t written her much at all and it’s hard to build her up when she doesn’t often get more than yandere sister characterization (like I seriously scoured the comics for a day and she’s not even in World Stars??? She’s hardly in the holiday comics either and in the older comics she’s what I mentioned before so I just,,,, did whatever the fuck I wanted)
> 
> Poetry referenced:  
>  _1 Dejection: an Ode_ \- Samuel Taylor Coleridge  
>  _2 She dwelt among the untrodden ways_ \- William Wordsworth  
>  _3 The Rights of Woman_ \- Anna Letitia Barbauld.  
>  _4 She Walks in Beauty_ \- Lord Byron


End file.
